JEFF SALYARDS
NIGHT SHADE BOOKS
SAN FRANCISCO
Scourge of the Betrayer © 2012 by Jeff Salyards
This edition of Scourge of the Betrayer
© 2012 by Night Shade Books
Cover Illustration by J. K. Woodward
Cover design by Victoria Maderna and Federico Piatti
Interior layout and design by Amy Popovich
Edited by Jeremy Lassen
All rights reserved
First Edition
ISBN: 978-1-59780-406-6
eISBN: 978-1-59780-407-3
Night Shade Books
http://www.nightshadebooks.com
For My Mother and Father
M y new patron clambered down the wagon, dark hair slicked back like wet otter fur, eyes roaming the stable yard in a measured sweep. He fixed on me briefly before continuing his survey, and it occurred to me, just as it had a hundred times since accepting the commission, that this would be unlike any other job I’d done.
Captain Braylar Killcoin beckoned me over as he spoke to a young soldier mounted on a horse. I hadn’t seen the captain since the initial interview several days ago, but where he’d looked neat and well put together then, he now looked worn and road-dusty.
As I walked toward the wagon, the young soldier nodded to the captain and rode my way. Despite having ample room to go elsewhere, he headed directly for me. I backed up against the barn, but he continued angling the beast in my direction, stopping only when its muscular shoulder was rippling in my face. I clutched my satchel, trying not to flinch as the hooves nearly crushed my feet and the youth’s scabbard jabbed me in the side. The soldier leaned down, face a battalion of freckles, tuft of sandy hair on his chin vaguely threatening, and said, “Bit of advice?”
I wasn’t sure if he was soliciting or offering. “I’m sorry?”
He cocked his head back towards the wagon. “About riding with the captain there.”
That still didn’t settle who was dispensing the advice, but I assumed he meant to, so I nodded, hoping to encourage him to move his animal.
He grinned, big and toothy. “Try not to get killed.” Then he flicked the reins and disappeared around the corner.
Yes, this would be a far cry from recording the tales of millers, merchants, and minor nobility. I approached Braylar as a woman led her horse around from behind the wagon, both of them short, stocky, and shaggy. She had the telltale coppery skin and inkblack hair of a Grass Dog, and wore trousers and tunic like a man. If I wondered what a nomad was doing in the company of a Syldoon commander, she wouldn’t have been faulted for wondering what a scribe was doing there as well. And no one would have been faulted for wondering what the Syldoon were doing in this region in the first place, with or without nomads or scribes. All very peculiar.
She regarded me as a seasoned drover might regard a cow. Determined not to be cowed, I looked her up and down as well, stopping when I saw that the fingers and thumb on her left hand had been amputated so only the final bits nearest the base remained. I hadn’t meant to stare, but certainly did, and she wiggled her nubs in my face like the death throes of a plump, brown beetle overturned on its back. I gulped and looked away.
The woman turned to the captain. “Skinny.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Skittish, too.”
“That, I noticed,” Captain Killcoin said. “No matter. You lack digits, he lacks fortitude, but neither absence will prove overly detrimental, Lloi. Make sure Vendurro is actually fetching Glesswik. I don’t want to find them drowning in a cask.”
I turned to watch her go and nearly bumped noses with the stable boy. He turned to Braylar. “Your man, inside? Told me to outfit that other wagon of yours, which I done. Waiting inside the barn. The wagon, that is. Can’t say where your man got to.” The boy craned his neck to look at the wagon behind Braylar. “Nice rig you got here. Why you want that other one?”
Braylar snapped his fingers to reclaim the boy’s attention. “Do you know horses, boy? Or were you hired solely for your shit-shoveling prowess?”
“None better.”
“With horses or shit?”
“The horses, I was meaning. Your man said to be ready when the captain rode up. What you a captain of, then? You’re no Hornman, that’s for certain, and the only sea around here is the big grassy one, so I’m guessing it’s no ship of no kind. Unless it’s a river skiff. But that’s a queer thing to call yourself captain of. Small like. Are you—?”
Braylar tossed a silver coin to the boy who plucked it out of the air. He flipped it over, looked closer at the markings, and whistled, having forgotten all about captaincy.
“There’s another to match it if you care for my horses half as well as you boast.”
The boy’s face scrunched up. “Honest?”
“Honest. But I expect the finest care. Do you have apples?” The boy nodded. “Salt lick?” Another quick nod. “Clover?”
He started to nod and stopped himself. “Think so. Have to check. Ought to.”
“Very good. Unharness these horses, and unsaddle those two at the rear. Mind, though, the bay in the black saddle. Her name is Scorn, and with good reason. She likes no one, myself included, so take care she doesn’t bite your face off. You find that clover, your chances improve dramatically. See to it they’re treated as if they belonged to your baron himself, and you’ll be rewarded.”
The boy looked at the coin again. “Seen the baron, once or twice, riding past in a big party. Never stopped, nor gave no coin. Bet he wouldn’t have done neither, even if he had stopped.” He looked back to Braylar. “I’ll treat them like the king’s, I will—like the king’s very own.” He said this with an earnestness bordering on alarming.
When Braylar clapped him on the shoulder, the boy jumped as if stung and then ran over to the wagon. Among the horses, he moved slowly again, touching one on the neck there, talking quietly to another there, seeming far more at ease in their company.
Lloi returned with two men following. I assumed the rider that bullied me into the barn was Vendurro. The other—Glesswik, by deduction—had a long face, splotchy and deeply pocked as if it had been set on fire and put out with a pickaxe. He said, “Welcome back, Cap. Starting to wonder if your she-dog there led you astray in the grasses.”
She replied, “You can be sure it was you I was leading by the nose, you would have been astrayed real good.”
The corner of Braylar’s mouth jumped as if caught doing something wrong, tugging small twin scars with it, and this twitch turned into a smile. Of sorts. “Move everything to the other wagon. And ensure our new… prize makes it to your room. Locked down tight. Don’t dawdle, and don’t draw attention to yourselves. Understood?”
Vendurro and Glesswik began to raise their right fists in unison, but Braylar waved them down, scowling. “Is that your idea of discretion, then? Have you been telling every lass you bedded that you’re the Syldoon scourge as well?”
Vendurro flushed around his freckles. “Sorry, Cap. Hard habit, that one.”
“See to the wagons, you sorry bastards. And give the horse boy no trouble, or I’ll hear of it.”
After fighting off the urge to salute again, they moved to the rear of the wagon. Captain Killcoin started towards the inn with Lloi on his heels, carrying a small trunk with a crossbow and quiver balanced on top, and I hurried to keep up.
The building was two stories, walls gray and in dire need of a new coat of whitewash. Otherwise, it seemed sturdy and in good repair—the thatched roof appeared to have been recently replaced, and the wattle and daub looked sound and well-patched.
The door to the inn was swung wide, propped open by a cask to let some air
flow through. The floor was wooden, and while I wouldn’t hazard a guess as to how many feet had walked across it over the years, it was worn and faded, especially just in front of the bar. There were a few unlit iron lamps on the walls, and two wide windows with the shutters thrown open above an empty fireplace. Due to the windows and the open door, the room was exceptionally sunny and motes floated in the broad shafts of light. A dozen small, round tables were scattered around the inn, as well as two long tables, all surrounded by chairs, and only a small number of them were currently occupied.
I grew up in an inn like this, though that was on the road between Blackmoss and Everdal, not in the middle of a city. But they were largely interchangeable—sticky floors, the reek of stale ale, shabby furniture, sooty smoke stains on the walls and ceiling—and I felt the same rush of ugly emotions entering every single one of them.
We headed to the bar and Braylar hailed the innkeeper, an angular man whose one soft feature was a bulbous nose.
He walked over to us and Braylar said, “Is that your boy in the yard?”
The innkeeper immediately looked defensive. “Martiss. What of it? What’s he done now?”
“You’re to be complimented. He seems to have a way with horses. A rare thing.”
“I got nothing to do with it. Can’t stand the beasts myself. But he practically lives out there—better be good with the plaguing things.” He wiped his hands on his dirty apron. “Name’s Hobbins. Welcome to the Three Casks. You here for food? Drink? We got no more rooms, but there might be a space or three on the common floor if you got intent to stay.”
Lloi said, “Won’t be needing no new rooms. Arranged already. Bristly bastard, been here a few days, sure you seen him.”
Hobbins rolled his tongue across his lower teeth, bulging his lip out. “Built like a boar? Half as agreeable?” Lloi nodded. “Ayyup. I seen him.” He turned back to Braylar. “Told him I didn’t like renting rooms to them that weren’t there; liked to see who I got under my roof. But I thought he was about to draw that big cleaver of his, so I made an exception.” He glanced at Lloi, and despite noticing her blade and the crossbow, he said, “Can’t say I like making exceptions for the likes of her, though. Her kind makes the other patrons right uneasy.”
Lloi started to respond but Braylar cut her off. “She makes me uneasy as well. But never fear—she won’t sleep under this roof.”
If Hobbins was mollified, he didn’t show it. After looking like he was chewing on another comment, he finally said, “Guessing you’ll be needing food and drink, then.”
“Indeed. Do you by chance have a tub to wash away the dust from the road?”
“No tubs. Got no time to heat them. Small family, big inn. We got some barrels in the back, though, full of water. But don’t you be trying to climb in them. Got no time to be fixing broken barrels.”
“And soap?”
“Course we got soap. Like to scour your skin clean off, and no perfumery of no kind, but it’s soap, just the same. When you’re ready to eat, you’ll be needing to do it at one of them tables. No eating at the bar. I keep my bar clean as a priest’s bunghole.”
“Fastidious,” Braylar replied.
Hobbins either failed to recognize the word or the sarcasm, as he was nonplussed as he pulled a key from behind the bar and handed it to Braylar. “Room’s top of the stairs, last on the left. Just grab a table when you’re clean and settled and Syrie’ll be by, take your orders.”
“Very good. And those barrels, that I’ll be careful not to mistake for tubs?”
Hobbins pointed a bony finger. “Only one back. Opposite the front.”
We walked up the stairs and unlocked the room. It was hardly extravagant—two bowed beds, a table and bench—but when Braylar looked at Lloi, you would have thought we were bedding down in a leper colony. “No window? The second floor, and no window?”
She set the chest down and glanced around to be sure he hadn’t missed a small window hiding in a corner somewhere, then shrugged. “I was riding with you, you recollect, not renting out rooms. You got issue, take it up with that whoreson, Mulldoos.”
“As someone much misliked in these parts, you’d do well not to tweak the nose of the only one inclined to protect you.”
“I protect myself plenty fine. What’s more, if anyone’s doing any protecting around here, it’s—”
“Enough, Lloi.” His words were placid enough, but his expression stopped her short.
She looked at me, and then back to him. “Right. Less tweaking. You be needing me for anything else just now, Captain Noose?”
“Yes. I meant what I said. Keep a tight rein on your tongue tonight.”
She gave him a look that was impenetrable, at least to me, and said nothing.
“You’ve ridden with us for some time now. Too long not to have reached an understanding with him.”
“Oh, we understand each other real good. He wouldn’t mind seeing my guts on the floor, and I wouldn’t weep overmuch to see his. Real easy relationship we got.”
Sighing, Braylar grabbed another tunic out of the chest. “Make certain my horse hasn’t killed the boy.” Lloi headed out to the stables and we headed out to the barrels. When the door shut behind us, Braylar began unlacing his ankle boots and said, “Stop anyone who attempts to come out.”
I was unarmed and had a bookish quality that rarely stops anyone from doing anything, so I asked how exactly he expected me to accomplish that.
He replied, “Tell them your patron is particularly shy. And violent.”
So I stood near the door and watched as Braylar unbuckled his weapon belts; on the right hip, a very long dagger, and on the left, a steel buckler and his wicked-looking flail. I noted something odd about the weapon during our initial interview, but now I got a closer look. The two flail heads resembled monstrous visages, though stylized—each had a mouth clenched tight in fury or horrible pain, a nose of sorts, but above that, neither eyes nor ears. Where they should have been, there was simply a ring of spikes continuing around the crown of the head. The heads weren’t large, each about the size of a child’s fist, but I was sure they hit a great deal harder.
Though those visages were rarely seen anymore—they were outlawed, reviled, or largely forgotten, depending where you were from—it was clear the spiked heads represented the Deserter Gods. Which was strange. Not so much that a Syldoon would have a weapon with holy images designed to cause unease—causing discomfort presumably came naturally to them—but that one would have something with holy images on it at all. The Syldoon were rarely accused of being pious. It was said they’d pay to have twelve temples built without setting foot in a single one.
The captain unwound his scarf and it was immediately clear why he wanted a guard—the Syldonian black rope tattoo around his neck was on prominent display. When he pulled his tunic over his head, there was perhaps another reason for privacy as well. His torso was an overworked map of scars of all kinds, long and pale, short and puckered. Having already made the mistake of staring too long once today, I quickly looked back to the door.
Being only a chronicler, and never to rich patrons, I wasn’t accustomed to perfumed soap or copper tubs—it was usually the public baths for me, and often the end of the line to get in—but at least I’d never had to resort to a barrel. I wondered why a Syldonian captain opted to stay in such an establishment; surely, he could have afforded the finer stuff. If anything, they were known for being ostentatious and extravagant; even if he was clearly trying to hide his affiliations, he still could have roomed at a place with a proper tub, copper or not. It was curious.
As I watched the water blacken, I also wondered what he’d been doing in the days since our interview—he looked to have taken to the road, and ridden it hard—but opted to hold my tongue on that count as well. The captain didn’t seem the kind of man to tolerate intrusive questions. Or even nonintrusive ones for that matter.
When he finished scrubbing and rinsing, he dressed and led me back to
the room. As we entered, I was surprised to see two people waiting for us. I assumed they were Syldoon as well, though they both had small hoods covering their necks and inked nooses around them.
One was standing, leaning against a support beam, his dark skin barely contrasting with the wood behind him. He was incredibly tall and not lean, and he looked over at me, his upper lip bare above a multi-braided beard that tumbled down his chest, and regarded me coolly for a moment. Then he tilted his head and gave me a long, slow nod that, if not openly warm or welcoming, was at the very least cordial. I’m not sure, but a small smile seemed to be playing on his lips. Compared to the other two men clothed in muted, earthy colors and modest cut, his outfit was nearly outlandish. His trousers, striped black and white, wouldn’t have drawn undue attention on their own, but they fed into leather riding boots folded over above his knees that were almost impossibly red. His hood, bright red as well, was noteworthy for the elaborate dags like broken teeth all along its edge, and the extreme length of the tail that was looped through his belt behind him. The flanged mace hanging on his hip was also overly ornate for something designed to bludgeon someone to death.
The other man was seated and equally well-armed—a trait common to all Syldoon, no doubt, even when battle doesn’t seem imminent—with a nasty-looking falchion on his hip. He apparently had been speaking, and acknowledged my interruption with an expression normally reserved for hated enemies or piles of manure. He had close-cropped hair, so blonde it was nearly white, pale skin, and judging by his frame—wide and thick with muscle—I assumed he was Mulldoos. Everything about him looked hard, except for thin eyebrows that would’ve been more at home on a petite woman. He turned to Braylar and said something in a tongue I didn’t understand.
Braylar replied, “In Anjurian, if you would. No need to be rude.”
His eyes narrowed as he looked me over again, then he said to his comrade, “What do you figure? Longer or shorter? I’m going with shorter.”
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